Letters of Marque, by Rudyard Kipling

Chapter 6

Showing how Her Majesty’s Mails went to Udaipur and fell out by the Way

ARRIVED at Ajmir, the Englishman fell among tents pitched under the shadow of a huge banian tree, and in them was a
Punjabi. Now there is no brotherhood like the brotherhood of the Pauper Province; for it is even greater than the
genial and unquestioning hospitality which, in spite of the loafer and the Globe-trotter, seems to exist throughout
India. Ajmir being British territory, though the inhabitants are allowed to carry arms, is the headquarters of many of
the banking firms who lend to the Native States. The complaint of the Setts to-day is that their trade is bad, because
an unsympathetic Government induces Native States to make railways and become prosperous. ‘Look at jodhpur!’ said a
gentleman whose possessions might be roughly estimated at anything between thirty and forty-five lakhs. ‘Time was when
Jodhpur was always in debt — and not so long ago, either. Now, they’ve got a railroad and are carrying salt over it,
and, as sure as I stand here, they have a surplus! What can we do?’ Poor pauper! However, he makes a little
profit on the fluctuations in the coinage of the States round him, for every small king seems to have the privilege of
striking his own image and inflicting the Great Exchange Question on his subjects. It is a poor State that has not two
seers and five different rupees.

From a criminal point of view, Ajmir is not a pleasant place. The Native States lie all round and about it, and
portions of the district are ten miles off, Native State-locked on every side. Thus the criminal, who may be a
burglarious Meena lusting for the money bags of the Setts, or a Peshawari down south on a cold-weather tour, has his
plan of campaign much simplified.

The Englishman made only a short stay in the town, hearing that there was to be a ceremony — tamasha covers
a multitude of things — at the capital of His Highness the Maharana of Udaipur — a town some hundred and eighty miles
south of Ajmir, not known to many people beyond Viceroys and their Staffs and the officials of the Rajputana Agency. So
he took a Neemuch train in the very early morning and, with the Punjabi, went due south to Chitor, the point of
departure for Udai-pur. In time the Aravalis gave place to a dead, flat, stone-strewn plain, thick with dhak-jungle.
Later the date-palm fraternised with the dhak, and low hills stood on either side of the line. To this succeeded a
tract rich in pure white stone — the line was ballasted with it. Then came more low hills, each with a comb of
splintered rock a-top, overlooking dhak jungle and villages fenced with thorns — places that at once declared
themselves tigerish. Last, the huge bulk of Chitor showed itself on the horizon. The train crossed the Gumber River and
halted almost in the shadow of the hills on which the old pride of Udaipur was set.

It is difficult to give an idea of the Chitor fortress; but the long line of brown wall springing out of
bush-covered hill suggested at once those pictures, such as the Graphic publishes, of the Inflexible
or the Devastation — gigantic men-of-war with a very low free-board ploughing through green sea. The hill on
which the fort stands is ship-shaped and some miles long, and, from a distance, every inch appears to be scarped and
guarded. But there was no time to see Chitor. The business of the day was to get, if possible, to Udaipur from Chitor
Station, which was composed of one platform, one telegraph-room, a bench, and several vicious dogs.

The State of Udaipur is as backward as Jeypore is advanced — if we fudge it by the standard of civilisation. It does
not approve of the incursions of Englishmen, and, to do it justice, it thoroughly succeeds in conveying its silent
sultriness. Still, where there is one English Resident, one Doctor, one Engineer, one Settlement Officer, and one
Missionary, there must be a mail at least once a day. There was a mail. The Englishman, men said, might go by it if he
liked, or he might not. Then, with a great sinking of the heart, he began to realise that his caste was of no value in
the stony pastures of Mewar, among the swaggering gentlemen, who were so lavishly adorned with arms. There was a mail,
the ghost of a tonga, with tattered side-cloths and patched roof, inconceivably filthy within and without, and it was
Her Majesty’s. There was another tonga — an aram tonga, a carriage of ease — but the Englishman was not to
have it. It was reserved for a Rajput Thakur who was going to Udaipur with his ‘tail.’ The Thakur, in claret coloured
velvet with a blue turban, a revolver — Army pattern — a sword, and five or six friends, also with swords, came by and
indorsed the statement. Now, the mail tonga had a wheel which was destined to become the Wheel of Fate, and to lead to
many curious things. Two diseased yellow ponies were extracted from a dunghill and yoked to the tonga; and after due
deliberation Her Majesty’s mail started, the Thakur following.

In twelve hours, or thereabouts, the seventy miles between Chitor and Udaipur would be accomplished. Behind the
tonga cantered an armed sowar. He was the guard. The Thakur’s tonga came up with a rush, ran deliberately across the
bows of the Englishman, chipped a pony, and passed on. One lives and learns. The Thakur seems to object to following
the foreigner.

At the halting-stages, once in every six miles, that is to say, the ponies were carefully undressed and all their
accoutrements fitted more or less accurately on to the backs of any ponies that might happen to be near; the released
animals finding their way back to their stables alone and unguided. There were no grooms, and the harness hung on by
special dispensation of Providence. Still the ride over a good road, driven through a pitilessly stony country, had its
charms for a while. At sunset the low hills turned to opal and wine-red and the brown dust flew up pure gold; for the
tonga was running straight into the sinking sun. Now and again would pass a traveller on a camel, or a gang of
Bunjarras with their pack-bullocks and their women; and the sun touched the brasses of their swords and guns
till the poor wretches seemed rich merchants come back from travelling with Sindbad.

On a rock on the right-hand side, thirty-four great vultures were gathered over the carcass of a steer. And this was
an evil omen. They made unseemly noises as the tonga passed, and a raven came out of a bush on the right and answered
them. To crown all, one of the hide and skin castes sat on the left-hand side of the road, cutting up some of the flesh
that he had stolen from the vultures. Could a man desire three more inauspicious signs for a night’s travel? Twilight
came, and the hills were alive with strange noises, as the red moon, nearly at her full, rose over Chitor. To the low
hills of the mad geological formation, the tumbled strata that seem to obey no law, succeeded level ground, the pasture
lands of Mewar, cut by the Beruch and Wyan, streams running over smooth water-worn rock, and, as the heavy embankments
and ample waterways showed, very lively in the rainy season.

In this region occurred the last and most inauspicious omen of all. Something had gone wrong with a crupper, a piece
of blue and white punkah-cord. The Englishman pointed it out, and the driver, descending, danced on that lonely road an
unholy dance, singing the while: ‘The dumchi! the dumchi! the dumchi!’ in a shrill voice.
Then he returned and drove on, while the Englishman wondered into what land of lunatics he was heading. At an average
speed of six miles an hour, it is possible to see a great deal of the country; and, under brilliant moonlight, Mewar
was desolately beautiful. There was no night traffic on the road, no one except the patient sowar, his shadow an inky
blot on white, cantering twenty yards behind. Once the tonga strayed into a company of date trees that fringed the
path, and once rattled through a little town, and once the ponies shied at what the driver said was a rock; but it
jumped up in the moonlight and went away.

Then came a great blasted heath whereon nothing was more than six inches high — a wilderness covered with grass and
low thorn; and here, as nearly as might be midway between Chitor and Udaipur, the Wheel of Fate, which had been for
some time beating against the side of the tonga, came off, and Her Majesty’s mails, two bags including parcels,
collapsed on the wayside: while the Englishman repented him that he had neglected the omens of the vultures and the
raven, the low-caste man and the mad driver.

There was a consultation and an examination of the wheel, but the whole tonga was rotten, and the axle was smashed
and the axle pins were bent and nearly red-hot. ‘It is nothing,’ said the driver, ‘the mail often does this. What is a
wheel?’ He took a big stone and began hammering proudly on the tire, to show that that at least was sound. A hasty
court-martial revealed that there was absolutely not one single relief vehicle on the whole road between Chitor and
Udaipur.

Now this wilderness was so utterly waste that not even the barking of a dog or the sound of a night-fowl could be
heard. Luckily the Thakur had, some twenty miles back, stepped out to smoke by the roadside, and his tonga had been
passed meanwhile. The sowar was sent back to find that tonga and bring it on. He cantered into the haze of the
moonlight and disappeared. Then said the driver: ‘Had there been no tonga behind us, I should have put the mails on a
horse, because the Sirkar’s mail cannot stop.’ The Englishman sat down upon the parcels-bag, for he felt that there was
trouble coming. The driver looked East and West and said: ‘I, too, will go and see if the tonga can be found, for the
Sirkar’s dak cannot stop. Meantime, O Sahib, do you take care of the mails — one bag and one bag of parcels.’ So he ran
swiftly into the haze of the moonlight and was lost, and the Englishman was left alone in charge of Her Majesty’s
mails, two unhappy ponies, and a lop-sided tonga. He lit a fire, for the night was bitterly cold, and only mourned that
he could not destroy the whole of the territories of His Highness the Maharana of Udaipur. But he managed to raise a
very fine blaze, before he reflected that all his trouble was his own fault for wandering into Native States undesirous
of Englishmen.

The ponies coughed dolorously from time to time, but they could not lift the weight of a dead silence that seemed to
be crushing the earth. After an interval measurable by centuries, sowar, driver, and Thakur’s tonga reappeared; the
latter full to the brim and bubbling over with humanity and bedding. ‘We will now,’ said the driver, not deigning to
notice the Englishman who had been on guard over the mails, ‘put the Sirkar’s mail into this tonga and go forward.’
Amiable heathen! He was going — he said so — to leave the Englishman to wait in the Sahara, for certainly thirty hours
and perhaps forty-eight. Tongas are scarce on the Udaipur road. There are a few occasions in life when it is
justifiable to delay Her Majesty’s mails. This was one of them. Seating himself upon the parcels-bag, the Englishman
cried in what was intended to be a very terrible voice, but the silence soaked it up and left only a thin trickle of
sound, that any one who touched the bags would be hit with a stick, several times, over the head. The bags were the
only link between him and the civilisation he had so rashly foregone. And there was a pause.

The Thakur put his head out of the tonga and spoke shrilly in Mewari. The Englishman replied in English-Urdu. The
Thakur withdrew his head, and from certain grunts that followed seemed to be wakening his retainers. Then two men fell
sleepily out of the tonga and walked into the night. ‘Come in,’ said the Thakur, ‘you and your baggage. My pistol is in
that corner; be careful.’ The Englishman, taking a mail-bag in one hand for safety’s sake — the wilderness inspires an
Anglo-Indian Cockney with unreasoning fear — climbed into the tonga, which was then loaded far beyond Plimsoll mark,
and the procession resumed its journey. Every one in the vehicle — it seemed as full as the railway carriage that held
Alice through the Looking-Glass — was Sahib and Hazur. Except the Englishman. He was simple
tum (thou), and a revolver, Army pattern, was printing every diamond in the chequer-work of its handle on his
right hip. When men desired him to move, they prodded him with the handles of tulwars till they had coiled him
into an uneasy lump. Then they slept upon him, or cannoned against him as the tonga bumped. It was an aram
tonga, a tonga for ease. That was the bitterest thought of all.

In due season the harness began to break once every five minutes, and the driver vowed that the wheels would give
way also.

After eight hours in one position, it is excessively difficult to walk, still more difficult to climb up an unknown
road into a dak-bungalow; but he who has sought sleep on an arsenal and under the bodies of burly Rajputs can do it.
The grey dawn brought Udaipur and a French bedstead. As the tonga jingled away, the Englishman heard the familiar crack
of broken harness. So he was not the Jonah he had been taught to consider himself all through that night of
penance!

A jackal sat in the verandah and howled him to sleep, and he dreamed that he caught a Viceroy under the walls of
Chitor and beat him with a tulwar till he turned into a dak-pony whose near foreleg was perpetually coming off and who
would say nothing but tum when he was asked why he had not built a railway from Chitor to Udaipur.